


Descent Into Insanity

by HaroThar



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Afterlife, Aradia shows up for only like a paragraph, Dream Bubbles, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Signless' cohort is mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-08-11 02:30:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7872520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HaroThar/pseuds/HaroThar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Grand Highblood died in the Vast Glub and expected to join his siblings in the Dark Carnival. Instead he found himself in a dream bubble, not knowing what it was, and now believes himself to be in purgatory.</p><p>The Signless, happening upon him on accident, feels a twist of pity for the obviously lonely and insane coldblood, and decides to help, despite the fact that neither is particularly fond of the other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Descent Into Insanity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [musicaltrilogist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicaltrilogist/gifts).



What is left, when your rage burns out? What is left, when, in your fury, you have broken everything your claws can reach and you have screamed yourself hoarse with agony? What is left when your church is laid to ruin and your pan is shattered through your eyes and ears and mouth, when your sorrow runs dry and your patience runs out, when your fear surges bright and pops flat, when your pride is laid to ruin and you have no jubilance left for mirth? What is left when you, in your rage, have wrought destruction until there is nothing left to destroy?

You are motherfucking tired.

You are motherfucking _lonely_. You heard the call of the Vast Glub and took it standing up and laughing, only to awake in a hive you had not set foot in in thousands of sweeps. You know, well and truly, that this place was demolished by the carpenter drones ages past and long forgotten to make room for new wrigglers, and you were filled with unchecked murderlust to find yourself returned to it. All that remains of it now is in shambles, destroyed by your claws and bleeding fingers but sometimes, when your guard is down, a mirage will overtake you and it will appear to stand again.

You are on a planet with only your old godsdamned hive, that old godsdamned beach, and an ocean that is much too small and circles back around in on itself. You have explored the whole of this world, and know that the sand and waves are all that is here, aside from the mirthless focal point of a demolished hive that you find yourself returning to and returning to and motherfucking _returning to_ regardless of how far you prowl from it, and you have come to one conclusion that you know to be the truth.

You are in purgatory. You are not at the Dark Carnival, nor will you ever be. Your gods have judged you and found you wanting, and thus they have condemned you to suffer alone, without your church, without your empress, without even the very gods that cast their judgement upon you to give you comfort.

You see them, though. You see your red god as he sings carnage in the skies, as he plots a course for destruction and screams double death from his emerald jaw. You note his patterns and know him to be searching, the cracks in existence that alight with the rainbow pulse of the carnival beyond- too purposeful and methodical to be anything other than hunting. Your little laughsassins had search patterns like that, yourself as well when you were still among them. You see your green god, too, though she is a much more chance sight. She is dark as the space between stars, and her patterns you recognize too. And it is in that you find another injustice.

He is hunting _her_. Your gods are at war with themselves, and she flees from him like wary _prey_. Deadly prey, certainly, with plans and plots to become the predator, but she runs from him, your god whom you have worshipped all your life, _she runs from him_ , and he is your god too.

You wonder why you are here, staring heavenward at their battle, stuck in a world of passive suffering, while your church makes merry at the carnival, and you can only conclude that it is your own fault. Your gods would not judge you wrong, you suffer because you _deserve_ to suffer, it is your place to be exiled and abandoned, it is your justice because it is your _fault_ and you are to blame.

When your gods are beyond your sight with their battling game, your eyes still turn heavenward and you see visions instead of stars. You gaze like an oracle scrys into a magic ball, but your spheres outnumber even the stars you could lay your eyes on from the window of your church, your ship, and you know not what to make of these inverted prophecies.  
  
You see yourself, in those spheres. Not always, but sometimes. It _is_ your younger self, right down to the painted mask of your youth and your affection for booty shorts. That should cause you mirth, but you find yourself too empty for that. He is _happy_ , this younger you, the one with his lips sewn in holy ritual that you never once partook in.

He spends time, primarily, with the younger versions of two heretics you only remember because their suffering was an offering to your red god. The little yellow one you made watch as his leader died, and then you gifted him to your empress to do with as she liked. The little green you’d let scream and then ordered dead, and even in the failure of her death she could offer something mirthful in that it was so funny that she’d _pantsed_ her matesprit and then run off crying and clutching cloth. But instead of laughing at their suffering and sending them to fates arguably worse than death, this younger you _adores_ them. You know body language and you know _your_ body language, and you know that this falsehood of your person loves the shitbloods in passion. You are at first stunned, then furious, then confused. Why are your gods showing you this? You see a young Summoner, and hate his welp as much as you hated his adult, you see a young Signless and hate him on principle. You see young versions of trolls you’d never known before and do not care about, and question double over why your gods want you to see these things. But most of all, more than you even look upon yourself, you see a tiny empress.

She is the salt of the sea and fury and fangs, all self-assured pride and sea dweller swagger (not that any of those fishbones ever had swagger except her) and pulse and life and needles for smiles. She is exactly as you remember her, from when you were that young, as perfect as the night that hatched her.

And your false self does not love her. In all the inverted visions, in all the orbs that hang from your sky and keep you company in hell, your little self does not love her. She looks upon him- upon you- with mild discomfort unaccompanied by bewildered affection. Your false self looks upon her as a tool, and you crush the ruins of your demolished hive within your fists. How can he not love her? Why do your gods _show you this_? Are they attempting to showcase your faults? Should you have bit off your tongue and sewn your lips? Should you have pitied motherfucking _shitbloods_? Are you suffering for mistakes that you made in your motherfucking youth, and that is why they have damned you to this planet of a beach and ruined hive?

If your gods are attempting to tell you that you should not have loved your empress, then they should have never let you meet her. You worshipped them but you _loved_ her and if they find fault in you for that then maybe they’re the ones who are wrong.

And then you flagellate yourself because how _dare you_ question your gods. You have no right. You have _never_ questioned them, all your life you have offered your every waking moment to your messiahs and many moments of your dreams as well- why the motherfuck would you question them now? Your claws make ribbons of your arms and back; you howl at yourself for your blasphemy. You deserve this. You deserve this purgatory, you deserve to stare at the cracks your red god makes that let you peek into the rainbow light of the carnival, you deserve to have cryptic looking glasses hanging from an otherwise unadorned sky showcasing riddles of what you did wrong. You deserve your isolation, your loneliness, your solitude.

You quit looking skyward. There is nothing there but pain for you.

You lay in the sand or the water, never in the ruins of your hive, and wait for nothing, for nothing is left for you. You are dead, and cannot die a double death without the call of your god, so you do not drown in the salty waves (they remind you of her) or of thirst or starvation. There is no sun to rise and burn you, You are left only with your shortcomings to keep you company.

A little red fairy- bright as mutant sin or holy danger- pays visit once, but she is gone quickly as she comes, a flighty sprite all grins and keen danger sense. You did not make move to speak to her, at first, thinking her a mirage like how sometimes you still see illusions of your hive repaired, and by the time your pan catches up that she was there she is gone in a trail of pixie dust.

You suppose it is fair. Your gods are punishing you, unholy fey should not contend with their judgement.

You reflect on your life, on anything and everything you could’ve possibly done wrong.

You reflect on your death, and how lonely it has been.

You miss your siblings.

The next visitor is not nearly so flighty. He comes to you in an oracle’s orb, fallen from the sky you no longer look at and thus he is able to take you by surprise. He is adorned as you knew him in life, his ridiculous pants hoisted high above his belly and his cloak brushing delicately against the sand. His wrists are scarred from where you had them burned (you remember that sight, all red like sinful mirth, staring at it from where you sat enthroned to watch his suffering) and his heathen eyes are soft when they look upon you.

You almost want to thank him, for his arrival revives feelings within you that you had long since been too empty for. You are filled to the brim with holy motherfucking _rage_. You lunge at him the moment you lay eyes on him and he is too small to move away in any semblance of in time. Your claws tear at unfamiliar skin and blood spills down your wrists in tiny rivers, bright and blasphemous and unnaturally hot.

Even as you do so, some inner part of you chastises yourself. You are heaping blame upon him because he is your easiest and only target, shoving your rage outward like a wriggler. You had told new brothers and sisters time and time again not to direct their rage at targets undeserving, such shit was unhealthy, only in capricious and holy violence can targets be so carelessly chosen, but you no longer _care_. Your family is not here to judge you now.

So you howl at him, screaming wordless fury as you feel tiny ribs snap beneath the weight of your hands and flesh rends beneath your claws. You screech and tear and crush until he is as hewn and ruined as the hive behind you, his eyes alone intact.

And still he sits back up.

“That would’ve been a great deal more troubling if I couldn’t just do this,” he says, tone uncaring as a secreterrorist going about their evening work, and he is mended in an instant. You did not blink, you saw no process; there was no healing of the wounds, no realigning of bones or stitching of flesh, nothing growing or morphing or shifting. Just blood and broken bones one moment, and untorn cloth and skin the next.

“Perks of being dead, I suppose, though I _would_ prefer if you didn’t-”

You lunge at him again but he can dodge this time, for you are worn from your earlier fit and he is fresh as evening dew.

“Now _stop_ that,” he tuts at you, and then the blasphemous motherfucker has the damned _audacity_ to pap you.

The world stops, for a moment, when he does. A skip in a CD, a hitch, a jump, a momentary stutter. Your anger swells and rises again and he just continues to pap you like he has any right, and at each firm touch your pan hitches to a halt and you find trouble in trying to get your thoughts recollected enough for fury.

Then the little red heathen purses his lips and shooshes you. The depraved motherfucker comes at you with placating hands and makes noise to soothe that which is ragged and jagged within you.

And you hate yourself, because surely this is a test from your gods. You hate yourself, because in your loneliness and desperation, you _let him soothe you._

As your hair lays down flattened beneath his tiny palm and his hand paps rhythmically on your face you let yourself deflate and sink. His shooshes fill your auditory ducts and smoothes over your rage like the spikes of a quillbeast laid flat. You sink and sink and sink and are drained empty of your anger as he creates cracks in it with his palms and brushes it away with his voice.

“There,” he says, content, once you are laying on the sand with your head cradled in his lap and your limbs are loose like the sleeping. You find it almost motherfucking funny that your head is practically too big for his crossed legs, your horns each the length of his limbs. “That’s better.”

“HONK.”

“Shoosh, try using your words,” he says as he thumbs your cheekbone.

“honk.”

“Or not,” he says with a sigh. He lifts his hand from your hair and you watch in awe as the gods grant him a miracle, a hairbrush materializing from nothingness to flip delicately into his palm, after which he quarrels with your hair. You are wounded deeply that this mutant might spin miracles like cloud candy from the air, but are underneath a haze of well-shooshed bliss so unfamiliar to you now that it takes you wholly on a simple matter of your lack of being accustomed. Few trolls are foolish enough to attempt to placate one of your rank and stature, and fewer still live through your vehemence to soothe you. Though you suppose that’s moot point, now that you’re dead.

The brush slides through the tips of your mangled hair, soothing as his palm was with the distinct attachment of grooming adhered to it. You doubt your hair needs it all that badly, but the care is the point of his actions and you like how you feel cared for.

And then you resent him and you resent yourself because you don’t _want_ his care or to like feeling cared for. It feels so nice and you are so angry that you are feeling good and complacent beneath him. Him, a mutant, an abomination to the natural order, a grievance of the Mother Grub that laid him, a show of the Mother’s distaste for the sins of trollkind. He is blasphemy made blood and flesh and _fuck_ his hands feel good.

“Quit sulking,” he tuts at you, “jamming with the troll who ever-so-creatively tortured me and ordered my execution isn't exactly what I would call a good time either.”

“Then why do it, motherfucker?”

“Because you looked terribly lonely and tormented. Also more than just a little mad. And I have some shred of _compassion_ in my body, despite how furious I became because of you. But, now that I've got you talking-!”

You groan.

“-how about you quit bitching like a wriggler and tell me why you're out here, all isolated in a bubble like this. I would've thought you'd be the first to go out and about and try to continue the lifestyle you had in your, well, life.”

“I am suffering in penance for my sins against my gods, mutant.”

“You're not going to stop being a dramatic little bitch anytime soon, are you?” he asks tiredly. You snarl loudly at him and he paps your face casually.

“There there, shoosh,” he says before returning to your hair. “Well I hate to be the one to tell you this, but I'm afraid your gods are a couple of warring alien pupae who are much more wrapped up in their own concerns and don't actually give a single shit about you or your church.”

No amount of platitude could prevent you from lashing out at him then. You howl and rend at him once more, limbs heavy with fatigue from your earlier attacks and heavy with the weight of getting sent out of your pan by a good shooshing, but you are so very large and he is so very runty and you have millennia of experience at this. You tear at him in rage because your rage is safer than the thoughts that observe the actions of your gods and compare them to his words and the thoughts of “what if he is right?” ( _and yet and yet and **yet**_ ).

He does not fix his sinful body until you are done with your outrage, at which point he asks, “Are you done?” while mending in a moment.

You hiss at him, loudly, and he mockingly hisses back at you.

“Blasphemous little mutant, you hold your pagan tongue! Do not slight my gods with your heathen words!” you hiss (your voice does not waver you do not hesitate you do not think on your gods as you have seen them in this purgatory and entertain his blasphemous ideas you do not you can't not after your whole life lived for them you can't accept this your rage is safer but you burned it out and now the thoughts they pry at you- _no they don't no they don't you are loyal you are devout you can't think thoughts like that you can't_ ) as you prowl, on all four limbs, in a tight pace line a short distance from his ghost.

“I'm not insulting them- much- I'm simply telling you that they're a pair of pupae stuck in a sibling squabble.”

“Of course they are siblings, my twin gods invented family and its meaning- for all you know it, shitblood.”

“You know, we warmbloods have family too. It's not something you colds have a monopoly on.”

“You speak untruths, lowblood.”

“Oh, dear,” he says, uncaring, as he crosses his legs and rests his chin on his hand and elbow on his knee, “however am I going to tell my mother?”

“Only jades can commune with the Mother Grubs, filth,” you spit at him, chest still heaving from your exertion and emotion.

“I- what- no. No, I mean my mother, who raised me in place of a lusus, who coincidentally is, in fact, a jadeblood, but not- wait.”

You glower at him.

“Wait, when you say ‘motherfucker’ do you mean…”

You crack a grin and chuckle at him. You love when people find out what you imply when you call others by that term, thousands of sweeps you have lived and it never lost its hilarity. His face makes you laugh genuinely for the first time since your death.

“That is disgusting.”

“Some trolls go their whole lives without ever figuring it out, motherfucker.”

“Oh, fuck, ew, no, stop calling me that, you are hereby expressly forbidden from calling me that, the very implications…”

You tune him out as he goes on this long-ass rant about propriety and insults and yada yada. You wonder how anyone who talks as much as he does could ever gain a following. Maybe shitbloods enjoy having their articular sponge clots sanded down into oblivion.

“I can tell you're ignoring me you know,” he says with a sharp pap on your cheek, almost a slap, and you hiss at him. With all his talking you were ignoring you never even heard his approach.

He paps you more until you stop hissing and snapping your fangs at him, and you grumble but allow yourself to be placated again, despite how everything in you reminds you that this is wrong.

“Do not think I have forgotten your insults to my gods.”

“I wasn't being insulting. I was being factual. Because your clown religion is a falsehood made by a green alien with magical time powers who really wants his way.”

You snarl at him, but do not have the energy for anything more.

“What do you know of my gods, shitblood?”

“Well since I’ve actually been out and about these last few sweeps, I might know more than you. You got a very intentionally filtered, propaganda version of the cherubs, so they could be turned into figureheads of your religion.”

“Shut your fuck.”

“Not liking what I'm saying doesn't make it less true.”

“Your lusus tell you that?”

“As it happens, it was one of her favorite sayings while I was growing up. It usually had to do with societal views on hemoclassism and the judicial system. I was never particularly fond of either of those.”

“That's because you're a motherfucking mutant.”

“And I'm sure you only ever liked them because they were good for _you_. Tell me, did you _never_ think on those you were harming?”

“Oh I thought on them plenty, motherfucker, thought on them as motherfucking holy paint.”

He glowers at you.

“When I was a nymph,” you humor him, “I had blasphemous thoughts akin to what you made yourself a preacher for. But then I remembered my holy calling and I beat those musings to shit like the broken-panned thought splinters they were.”

“So you're not _entirely_ beyond redemption, despite how utterly distasteful and horrendous you are as a general whole, is that what you're saying?”

“Motherfucker don't act as though your shitblooded ideals can act as my salvation!” you snarl, but he continues to pap you and your hiss dies in your throat.

He hums thoughtfully and you lay on the sand. “You know, I rather wish I didn't care quite so much sometimes, I’d really like to leave you here in the sand to fall into your own loneliness and insanity for the rest of eternity.”

“Then motherfucking do it.”

“Ah, well now I _can’t_ , just to spite you!”

“Fucker!”

“I'll see a proper troll made out of you yet.”

“I would sooner claw off my own limbs.”

“Hey, I'm not fond of this situation either, remember, you're the one who had me fucking _tortured_!”

“And what a sight it motherfucking was.”

“I cannot _believe you!_ ” the heathen screams, slapping your face hard enough to sting. “You know, I was a peaceable troll, I had a loving mother and a wonderful cohort, I was never really moved to rage until your _fucking_ irons and I died angry! Does it not bother you at all that I died hating you in the purest fury I had felt in my whole life?”

“It motherfucking _entertains_ me is what it does.”

“Unbelievable!” he huffs, and you laugh at him. His huffing is really cute, now that it's grown on you. Maybe not like a person, but like a particularly harmless domesticated furbeast getting its irritation on.

You pap him, and he looks as affronted as you first felt when he touched you.

“What part of ‘I hated you more than anything I had ever hated in my life’ makes you think you should pap me?”

“What part of ‘I motherfucking murdered you’ made you think you should lay your fronds in my direction?”

“Because you were lonely, and despite already being dead you looked like you were dying. Because I'm a dumbass who forgives too easily and spent the entire time I was alive believing that there was good to be found in anyone.” The glare he levels at you is truly impressive, you almost feel chagrined. “Even in someone like you.”

You don't respond, simply let your eyes close and let his heathen hands touch you. You should probably put up more of a struggle against his touch, but he has a point. You have been lonely. Truly, utterly, wholly, consumingly lonely.

“You're a mess of blood and sand,” he comments, and you click at him. “We should get you cleaned up. You smell like gore and saltwater.”

“Ain't nothing better to smell like, motherfucker,” you say, thinking idly of your empress.

“I disagree. Let's go to your hive and do some ablutions.”

“My hive is-” you start, but are winded by the circumstance of your hive standing upright like you left it on Alternia, like you found it here in purgatory.

“You did a number on it, certainly, but this is a dream bubble, you know. Nothing is beyond fixing here.”

“That was another jab at me.”

“Yes it was.”

He badgers you with his fronds and excess words until you stand and are grumblingly shuffled toward your renewed hive, and you find it more altered than you thought in your first glance. The proportions have shifted, shaping to your size and height. You are disgruntled and vaguely disgusted.

“Where’s your ablution block?” the mutant asks. You grunt in response.

“Your ablution block,” he repeats, as though your hearing him is the problem. You grunt again.

He sighs and his hands open and close as though with a desire to claw you. You'd probably start laughing if he tried, if you are wholly honest with yourself.

“If you could stop being ridiculously infuriating for a few moments, I am trying to help you, here.”

“No one asked you to, though.”

“Could you try being a little more ungrateful?” he asks sweetly, “I’m feeling a little too appreciated here.” He shoves you and you are weakened enough from your afterlife to actually move with it. “Now get going, your ablution block, pick up your feet.”

You acquiesce and lead him to the right block, and he and you glare at each other.

“If you make me-”

“If you try to-”

You both start and stop at the same time, and he shooshes you with a sharp pap.

“If you make me bathe you, I am going to use iron wool instead of a washcloth,” he tells you.

“If you try to bathe me I will rend your body to motherfucking pieces once again.”

“So glad we’re on the same flap of book filling, I'll wander around your hive while you're busy.”

“Just call it a motherfucking page you shitblooded mutant.”

“Fuck off, I don't need your coldblood vernacular in order to get my point across so I'm not going to use it. Now clean yourself.”

“Fine!”

“Fine!” he mimics, and the moment is such a callback to when you were a pupa that you are startled enough for him to leave before you close the door and undress.

When you finish, you feel admittedly better- though your admissions will not be directed at him. You find him in the culinary block with a cup between his tiny hands, and his hair looking more messed than when you left him. It is only now that you realize that you did not need to seek him out. He is the one devoted to this pale parody and you could have just left him in your hive to his own devices. You are a mite irritated with yourself.

“You smell significantly better, congratulations on successfully cleaning yourself.”

“Hey, motherfucker, fuck you.”

“If I'm being entirely honest, I'd rather not.”

You hiss but can't manage to put any fire into it. You're feeling warm and clean and your hive ain't so bad as you once found it, now that it isn't cavernous empty. Sated, maybe, is the word you're looking for. You are embittered that the feeling comes from the fact that he is here.

“I've been trying to think of what to do with you,” the runt informs you, and you sneer at him.

“As though you are in any place to make do of something with me.”

“Well I couldn't leave you here on good conscious,” he says before sipping at his mug of water, “as gratifying as I think that might be, I know in the long run it will plague me. So I cannot leave you here. However, the other option…”

You arch your brows at him and laugh, mocking. “You can't be as to take me with you brother, you are a strange type of forgiving but your matesprit and moirail and lusus surely won't be.”

“She's not my matesprit he's not my moirail and my ‘lusus’ is my mother I've told you this. They are all different to me than just the quadrants so commonly used.”

“Greedy shit ain’t you.”

“It isn't greedy, it's love. The reason people think it’s ‘greedy’ is because it was a thought perpetrated in order to prevent trolls from acting outside the norm. You see, when norms start breaking our hatred for each other will start to fade and society as we know it will reshape, which is frightening to those in power, I know, but change is often a good thing, especially in the direction of love, hope, forgiveness, compassion, and collaboration. Our species is reared from hatch to molt to fight each other for any inch of upper hand when in reality if resources were pooled and each and every troll were to reach their full potential at the things that individual is good at, is passionate about, can bring to the nutrition ellipsis, our species would be so much better off than we are now. We have these imaginary blocks over the full potential of trolls, cold and hot alike, with unrealistic expectations of dominance and violence compared to meekness and vulgarity that no troll truly fits the mold of, and it is damaging for trolls to see constant ideals thrown at them with no hope of ever achieving such. Trolls either suppress their true emotions so that all they show is violence, or stay true to themselves while hating themselves and feeling atrociously inadequate and for what? Some fool ‘epitome’ put in place to keep us predictable and in line with the whims of those controlling us, who are, ironically enough, also controlled by their own unrealistic standards. We have to break down these barriers, united, and work every night to grow as people and as a community, focusing less on the singular and more on the wonder of being part of something bigger than ourselves.”

You should tune him out, it's lowblood babbling, but you find yourself listening to his every word. You are not controlled by anything, of course, you are a troll who enforced subjugation, but either because you are tired and content or because you just find it entertaining (you're always up for a good laugh, after all) you listen attentively to him.

Maybe the shitbloods who followed him did have a reason. You can see the danger of his charisma.

You were foolish to underestimate him. Clearly, though, you will not do it again.

“That's nice,” you say, condescending as your queen. He does a fairly spectacular eye roll and huff at you, he's practically a lusus himself, or maybe a schoolfeeder.

“You’ll learn somenight,” he says, and you snort.

“Unlikely. Now about the motherfuckers you ‘love’ so much.”

“Ah, yes, well, if any of you try to start a fight with anyone else, I'll pap the guilty parties down. And probably the not-guilty parties as well since none of you seem to comprehend just letting me handle it and not immediately aggressing in return.”

“You seriously think we could ever get along?” you ask, moving closer and looming over him with height and weight and years he would never have had the chance to achieve even if you hadn't had him executed, “Even with your poly pappings like a motherfucking pile whore?”

He blithely stands and paps your chest, your face far out of his reach. “Shoosh, you giant monstrosity, intimidation doesn't work when we’re both already dead.”

You squint, but deflate.

“And yes, I do. My family loves and respects me, even if I do things they don't agree with. They’ll put up with you, for my sake if nothing else.”

You snort.

“And _you_ will put forth your best frond and make amends with them, or at the very least be civil.”

“Or what?” you hiss.

“Or I pap you into submission, I mentioned this earlier.”

“You can't keep me motherfucking sedate my whole li-afterlife.”

“Watch me.”

You crick your neck both ways but he is not to be cowed, and you feel just the tiniest spark of admiration for him. You grin, wide and too full of too many fangs, and chuckle low and soft and long, with gradually increasing volume. You will never change your mind, you know this to be truth of utmost truth, but perhaps it could be fun to play pale with him and watch him flail and try.

It will be less lonely, if nothing else.

“Fine, motherfucker, do your worst.”

**Author's Note:**

> I got a little long winded at the start, and I apologize for that, I know y'all are here for the comfort. Also, I like to think I did Signless' motivational speech alright but I've also never tried to be a motivational preacher before so *crosses fingers*
> 
> This was super fun to write, I'm glad I got assigned this!
> 
> Leave a comment if you liked it :)   
> Or if you have constructive criticism/noticed an error!!


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